


Everlong

by lazywriter7



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Falling In Love, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, IN SPACE!, M/M, Musical References, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Quill Feels, Peter Quill's Walkman - Freeform, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 06:11:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17360516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazywriter7/pseuds/lazywriter7
Summary: For the prompt: 'soulmate au where no one hears music until they fall in love'“So you carry it around,” Gamora fingered the headset, black plastic creaking under her thumb, “even though you can’t hear it.”“I’ll be able to.”When I fall in love.The kind of love that meant Mum was left to raise a child by herself for eight years, but kept on hearing music for the rest of her life. Music that made her dance in the kitchen, blare lyrics in the shower, hum softly in the hospital bed. Music and effect that Peter watched with widened eyes, but never heard.So he carried the Walkman in his pocket, clamped on the headset every day. Hit play and saw the cassette spin, wondering whatCome and Get Your Lovemight sound like.It was only too bad that he’d hearHighway To Hellfirst.





	Everlong

**Author's Note:**

> So a while ago, as a sign of appreciation to everyone who's been so supportive of my other Starkquill fic, I put up three teaser snippets on tumblr, asking people to vote for what they'd like me to write (first). 
> 
> Thank you so much to those who voted, the response far exceeded what I'd imagined - and the winner that emerged, by an absolutely gigantic margin, was musical soulmates! Woo hoo!
> 
> This first part was updated some time ago on my tumblr [here](http://lazywriter7.tumblr.com/post/179397304141/starkquill-rave-fic-time) , and I've finally gotten around to putting it on ao3. Thanks to those who sent love and voted again, hope you like!
> 
> Lyrics and title from 'Everlong' by the Foo Fighters.

_And I wonder_  
_When I sing along with you_  
_If everything could ever feel this real forever_  
_If anything could ever be this good again_

**1986**

The Chevy’s wheels sizzle on the asphalt, gravel flying off the highway to clatter on its undersides. The windshield is hazy under the glare of the high noon sun. The window panes are half rolled-down, heat streaming into the car under the guise of wind. Poles and railings and the odd warehouse – all flit by in an unending blur, melding into the landscape of the Great American Countryside stretching about him.

Sweat is beginning to collect under his fingertips; he tightens his grip on the steering wheel. It leads to his back losing contact with the sticky leather of the seat, t-shirt parting with his skin to let through a small draught of coolness. The Chevy Camaro IROC-Z probably wasn’t built for a sixteen-year-old driver, though he doubts he’s ever going to grow taller. His legs are over-extended as is, feet half-skimming the gas and brake pedals. He should’ve pulled over and moved the seat up a long time ago, but he hasn’t been able to make himself slow down. The road feels distant, at this speed. Like he’s barely touching the ground, like these straight grey lines are mere guidelines rather than boundaries he can’t cross over.

Something vibrates on the dash – he looks over, sees a flashing screen. In a move that barely registers in his head as careless, he reaches over till his belly skims the bottom of the steering wheel, fingers extending for the scorching chrome-and-plastic of his phone. He hits _receive_ and _speaker_ in quick succession, settles back into the damp groove his weight has created in the seat.

“Tony.”

The word is almost lost as the Chevy speeds under and past a flyover – Tony’s breath leaves his chest slowly. “Hey pumpkin.”

Rhodey’s tone is even, well-controlled. “Where are you? The campus police have been looking for hours–”

“Not on campus.” Tony speaks lightly. The wind is rippling past the hairs on the back of his neck, the ones on his sweat-sodden, taut arms. It’s been two years since they grew in, and they still feel vaguely foreign on his skin.

“…how far?”

“Exact coordinates are a bit of a bust.” He knuckles at the sweat collecting over his upper lip – it’s still faintly tender from the shave earlier this morning. “I’m guessing somewhere in the middle of Bumfuck, Missouri.”

“ _Missou_ –” The composure drains out of Rhodey’s voice in a hot second – word sawed off at the end in an effort to bank the panic. “How did you… _how_?”

“You know, the usual. Bought a plane ticket. And a car.” Tony keeps a hand on the wheel, stretches the other one out the window to be buffeted by the wind. Trails a fingertip ever-so-lightly over the window frame, smoothing over the vermilion-red finish. “The transmission is gorgeous, Rhodes. She handles like a dream.”

The frustration comes through easily over the silence on the line, Rhodey picking and discarding words and trying not too breathe too heavily. Tony waits him out, and sure enough, “You don’t have a license.”

“The showroom owners didn’t seem to mind.” The sky stripping over his head is heat-pale, blue fading away under the encroaching brightness of the sun. “Then again, I left my credit card with them so they probably wouldn’t have minded if I burned the place down.”

Nothing but the white noise of the highway. Tony half-thinks the line has gone dead, the click of the call ending lost somewhere between exits 43 and 44 – it doesn’t even sting that much. His heart kicks up a notch when words come through again, concern softening the syllables. “Media’s flocking the campus. Everyone wants to talk to the youngest ever winner of the 2.007 MIT Robot Design award.”

“How exciting for them.” He doesn’t mean to glance to the left, but the trophy still glints at the corner of his vision – knocked over on its side, cradled in the crease of the front seat. The burnished plaque at the bottom gleams dully: _mens et manus. Mind and hand._ There’s a name below the inscribed motto, three words long, that’s mostly been scratched out.

Tony looks straight ahead and drives.

“Your.” He doesn’t have to wonder too long to know what’s at the end of that uncharacteristic stutter. “Your dad gave an interview.”

“That’s good, I’m sure he needs the exposure.” The wheel creaks under his grip; Tony loosens it inch by inch, every motion tight and deliberate. “Next time, I’ll make sure to get a journalist pass before expecting him to come see me.”

An exhale. “Tony–”

“Sorry, gas station up ahead. Gotta fill up, talk to you later.”

The brake moves down sharply under his foot, tires squealing as he swerves violently to the right. He barely makes the turn, phone flying off the dashboard to clatter noisily to the floor.

The car lurches into the driveway, fender scraping past the pole of an unlit neon sign. It trundles through, passing under the broad shadow of the station’s concrete canopy. Rolling to a stop beside a self-serve console, Tony leaves the keys in the ignition and kicks the door open.

The gravel crackles under his soles. The air is hot and still. He flicks his eyes towards the fuel gauge – barely an inch below full.

The air whispers listlessly past his lips, skin dry and beginning to crack. His hands are still shaking.

For the lack of anything better to do, he flicks the radio on. Static, static, static… his fingers catch and turn the dial, degree by degree. And then–

_–leave me be_

_Taking everything in my stride_

_Don't need reason, don't need rhyme_

_Ain't nothing I would rather do_

Tony’s lips curve, quick and bittersweet. He pulls his legs back into the car, shifts back till the scalding leather of the headrest presses into his hair. Closes his eyes.

_Going down, party time_

_My friends are gonna be there too_

_I'm on the highway to hell_

 

Somewhere under the spectacular guitar riffs, he can hear another car pull into the station. The near-inaudible squeal of the engine coming to a stop, the click of a door swinging open. A few seconds, and then footsteps crunching over gravelly concrete, growing more and more distant.

Tony opens his eyes. Through the windshield, he can glimpse the back of a man (judging by the balding pate) in his sixties, disappearing through the glass doors of the attached convenience store. In idle curiosity, he glances over to the neighbouring console. Typical grey Ford Escort – 1981? 82? Whichever, it’s a boring car either way – bumpers turned dusty and brownish courtesy of the road. Both the front doors are thrown open, the driver’s seat desolate.

A flicker of movement – Tony’s eyes move towards the hood, where something…no wait, some _one_ is blocking the view of the front tire.

Wow, that is one tiny human. Even from this distance, he can see the wide eyes, the slightly agape jaw. One tiny human staring at Tony’s car.

He’s clambering out of the Chevy Camaro before he’s fully aware, gangly limbs unfolding and his knees poking out through ripped denim. The boy – it seems like a boy, what with the crazy tufts of hair and general scruffiness – gazes at him for a while, before those eyes whip back to the car.

 

_Hey Satan, paid my dues_

_Playing in a rocking band_

_Hey mama, look at me_

_I'm on my way to the promised land_

 

“Bitchin’ ride, huh?” Tony reflects on the wisdom of using slang in front of an impressionable child, before kicking the thought to the back of his head. “You like it?”

The kid stays mute. Tony comes round the hood of the Chevy – the kid somehow looks even more rundown at this angle. Pale, drawn face, eyebags.

Tony reaches through the other window of his car, till his fingers wrap around the warmed metal of the trophy. Pulls it out and turns around to see the kid nervously gnawing at his lip, chin tilted high.

“I. I’m not supposed to be talking to strangers.” Nervous lip gnawing or not, the boy still meets Tony’s eyes, a pale and bloodshot gaze. His voice is slightly deeper than expected, somehow stripped of the traditional lilting tones of a child.

“I promise this isn’t made of candy.” Fingers uncurling, Tony lets the trophy roll slowly out of his hand – the boy’s eyes widen, before his hands dart to scoop it out of the air in an impressive show of reflexes.

Tony can feel his lips stretch out on either side of his cheeks – it doesn’t feel halfway fake. He pulls the Chevy’s door open on the passenger side, ducks in and shimmies over to the driver’s seat. Over his shoulder, he can still see the boy staring at his – dash? stereo? – pallid fingers loosely clasped around the base of the MIT prize.

Tony wraps steady fingers around the sweat-sticky wheel, chest rising and falling calmly. Starts up the engine, a smooth and pitch-perfect purr. Glances left for the last time, curl of the mouth punctuated by a wink. “Stay rad, kid.”

This time, he turns the Chevy with considerably more grace – wheels skimming on the concrete before dismounting onto highway asphalt. His seat is still too far back, but he doesn’t feel half as strenuously stretched out.

The sky sprawls on ahead. Tony hums.

_And I'm going down_

_All the way_

_I'm on the highway to hell._

~

“I don’ get it.”

Peter can feel his nose scrunching, which he smoothens immediately.

Too late. “What don’t you get, bunny?”

He shudders. Yeah, not one of his favourite nicknames. “It doesn’ even – okay, listen, here it comes again–”

_He-ell_

_(He-ell)_

_What’s the matter with your he-ad_

“See?” Peter wants to shake the radio a little, but then it might fall off the sill again and Mom hadn’t liked that. “It doesn’ even rhyme.”

“It doesn’t have to rhyme, sweetie.” Mom plucks at the plastic tube going into her hand, almost like she’s strumming. “One of the gifts of modernism.”

“Whazzat?”

“No clue.” Mom smiles a little fuzzily, letting the tube jerk back into place. It looks almost invisible against her hand. “Your smarty-pants cousin used to say it.”

Peter wants to protest the smarty-pants status of Mara – she calls him a dum-dum, and he doesn’t think that’s a very smart insult at all – but then the chorus starts. It sounds, like all music does, like words awkwardly strung one after the other, missing something called the _melody_. And Mom says that’s the most important bit.

_Come and get your love_

_Come and get your lo-ove_

“But.” And Peter can feel his nostrils flaring up again, even though he’s trying _really_ hard to understand, “Don’ you just…have love? Why’d you have to go get it? Did you leave it somewhere?”

Mom laughs – which Peter loves, even if it makes his chest puff out further in indignation. “You’ll understand when you hear it, honey.”

 _But I **am** hearing it. _He’s hearing the guy say the words, even if they’re pitched weirdly. But Mom, and the world, says that he can’t Really hear music until he falls in love, and that won’t happen until a few more years ‘ _at least_ ’.

The hospital bedsheet scrunches under Peter’s fingers, stiff and starchy. The nurses still haven’t opened up the windows, and the air smells dead.

He doesn’t want to wait a few more years. He needs to understand what’s making Mom smile _now_.

He wants to climb up on the bed, tuck his knees under her sides. But Mom doesn’t look up to it, so he just crosses his arms and tries to keep the whining to a minimum. “What if I don’t fall in love till I’m like… twenty.”

“Then you’ll be wiser than any teenager that ever lived.” Mom smirks like she made a really good joke. Peter resists the urge to sigh, Gramps-style.

“What if I can’t hear music even _after_ I fall in love.”

“That means you’re waiting for your soulmate.” Mom’s teeth click together on the ‘t’, eyes creased like paper. “It’s the best reason of all.”

“Dierdre says,” He pronounces it like _dray-dray_ , because no eight year old needed to have that complicated a name. “That soulmates are shi – stuff that’re made up for people who’re too selfish to love anyone.”

“I think it’s kinda romantic.” Mom says, still all wrinkly-eyed. “Your brain deciding to hold off one of the best experiences of life, just to share it with someone important.”

“What if,” And who cares if he’s mumbling a little, toes wriggling in his shoes, “they’ve already experienced it?”

“Then they’ll still value the moments they share with _you_ , Pete.” Mom’s fingers dance across the bedspread, white on white, a delicate _tap-tap_. “There’s nothing in the world quite like having a tune in your ear. A chorus kicking into full swing. And looking around you, and realising that everyone around you is feeling the exact same thing.”

“You’ll remember the songs you listen to. The songs you sing.” And then, like magic, her spindle-like fingers find his – scrunched tight against the sheets. Coax them loose, encase them in her hand with a gentleness that comes so easy. “It doesn’t matter, if they’re the first ones or the last. What matters is that you remember, and hold them dear.”

 _The people or the songs_ , he wants to ask – but the answer’s there, in the shine of Mom’s eyes.

It doesn’t matter. When it’s the right person, the right song. The answer is one and the same.

 

~

 

**2012**

Peter’s borne several names through his lifetime.

Some he’s clung to with mulish bloody-mindedness – _light of my life. My precious son. My little Starlord._ Some he hears with such repetitive frequency that the effect’s gotten somewhat stale. _Terran. Criminal. Dick._

And some that he would happily do with never having to hear ever again. Presenting to you: _man who has lain with an A'askavariian._

Not that he resents being framed as the James Bond type. O-ho no, he is quite satisfied with tales of his exploits being spread throughout the galaxy. Except when they involve tentacles. And teeth.

Not that Rill isn’t an entirely delightful… entity. But they never anything-ed. At all. Remotely. Shy’la ‘caught’ them together, but he was only ever trying to get some info out of her on the Nova archives. Which is why he _resents_ being summoned here by her in some Rigellian dive bar and have people eye him like… it’s goddamn middle school all over again, the time it’d got out that he pecked Molly Sheridan on the cheek. The same surveying with _interest_. That Shi’ar by the corner doesn’t even have limbs, for heaven’s sake.

“Pew-ter.”

_Oh wonderful._

Peter plasters a smile on his face – more rictus-y than usual, but it’s not like these jackasses are gonna be able to tell – and turns around. There, under the Karona lights by the bar. Should’ve figured.

Rill is occupying three of the bar stools, mandibles long and dangling over her lower lip. Her neon-pink skin positively hurts to look at under the lighting. Her voice is garbled, but infinitely pleased. “Pew-ter.”

Peter manoeuvres between the tables till he’s reached the bar, turning in place to cock a hip against the counter. A pink tentacle goes slithering off the stool next to him, leaving behind a slime trail that smells faintly of lavender.

Rill smiles down at him benevolently – Peter keeps his own grin through a valiant struggle. “Standing is fine, thank you.”

It’s difficult to understand her response through all the chirruping; she either says _so polite_ or _hubba hubba._ Peter tries not to dwell on it. “So you. Erm. Said you found something of potential interest to me?”

“So I did.” Rill strokes her own temple with a proboscis. “My feeder crafts came across–”

“Whoa, whoa. Shouldn’t we be talking about this in a,” He clears his throat significantly, “ore-may ivate-pray…ocation-lay?”

A'askavariians don’t have eyelids – otherwise he gets the impression there would be a lot of blank blinking going on right now.

“What?” Okay, he’s sounding a bit defensive, sue him if Toby McIntosh only explained the rules of pug latin to him once. “Did I not do it right?”

“I would be better able to inform you,” Rill informs him gravely, mandibles wobbling, “if I knew what you were trying to do.”

Maybe A'askavariians don’t have pugs either. Good for them, Peter doesn’t know why you’d want to talk to those wrinkly-looking bastards anyway.

“We are having a secret deal.” He’s doing the whisper-and-lean now, which is super obvious, but What Can You Do. “Shouldn’t we be doing this in a, yanno. Private location?” He’s feeling a little awkward about explaining ‘them rules’ to a mafia lord, but maybe the other mafia lords never told Rill about them. Sexist jerks.

“Oh no.” Rill chirps back cheerily. “Any spy in this bar would be confirmedly strong-bowelled.”

“Nice.” A pause. “What’s that?”

“We strangle them with our tentacles.” Rill demonstrates with a little wave-y motion. Peter waves back at the tentacle faintly. “And then disembowel them with our teeth.”

“Very nice.” Peter realises he’s been nodding for at least three seconds too long, before stilling his head with a jerk. “So, uh. Matter of interest?”

“As I was saying, my feeder crafts came across a decimated Chew-tari mothership–”

“Chitauri?” Peter usually doesn’t like giving away his cards that quickly, but holy shit. Fuck no. He straightens up immediately, ankle knocking into a barstool leg, “Man are you barking up the wrong tree, I want _nothing_ to do with those lackeys or their boss–”

“–in addition to picking up some strange readings. Scans confirm recently lapsed warp-time behaviour, as well as particles from your corner of the universe.”

“Knowhere?” Peter scoffs quietly, but Rill’s beady eyes are twinkling under the lights and– “You mean Terra.”

Rill gathers her tentacles about herself, almost primly. “Have I got the right tree yet?”

Peter… doesn’t really have the brain space to deal with that question, to be honest. His mind is jittering back and forth in part-surprised, part-panicked strains, “Did they…was there… did they attack Terra?”

“I cannot confirm that.” There’s a part of his head still, that lives in a Joplin two-bedroom flat with a radio on the kitchen sill – a part that flinches at these words. “The ship was unsalvageable. We found only one lifesign for several systems, and it wasn’t Chew-tari.”

Peter’s lips part to speak on reflex, before pressing shut – words stilling in their tracks. It’s an age-old instinct that’s served him well over the years, the little voice of self-preservation that’s saved his hide time and again. _You sure that stripper is legit, Pete? That’s a whole lotta guns for a lap dance routine. Yeah, that guy’s your Uncle Bill, but he’s also a Ravager and looks genuinely disappointed every time Yondu postpones Eat-The-Terran day. That slime looks like bad news, do not lick it._

Then again, he didn’t become a magnificent outlaw by _not_ doing anything risky and immensely stupid. This is just a business deal. And he’s managed to walk out every single time, with few scars and fewer blaster burns on his jacket. He can back out before getting in too deep.

(He has to. He’s ridiculously in debt to the seamstress guild on Xandar, and they’re notoriously vicious when it comes to collection. Needles-in-bits vicious.)

Rill _ahems_ politely, mandibles quivering. Peter is reminded that he’s keeping a mafia lord waiting, soft spot for him or no.

 _Fuck it_. He smiles, broad and assured. “I’m interested. Show me what you found.”

 

~

 

When Tony comes to, he hits his head on the inside of the helmet.

 _Clanggggg._ His eyes only water slightly – this is far from the worst he’s ever had in the suit. He’s not plummeting to a fiery death, or freezing solid in the stratosphere, or even catapulting to crash against the workshop ceiling. This is good. This is manageable.

Sure, he can’t rub at the bump on his forehead because _the_ _suit is dead_ , but that’s cool. It is. They let him keep his suit in hell, which seems like a cheatcode if there ever is one.

“J? You there?” His lips barely move, but that shouldn’t be an impediment if JARVIS is still functional. The ensuing silence is answer enough.

 _This is fine. I’m fine._ If the suit’s a cheatcode, then JARVIS would’ve been a goddamn walkthrough. If Dante is to be believed, then this level isn’t so easy to cross.

_“Stark, you know that’s a one-way trip.”_

Tony opens his eyes.

Hell has an… interesting aesthetic. There’s a lot more neon-coloured lighting than the average person would expect, though Tony’s always believed Vegas to be an approximation of the netherworld. It’s more cavern than room; curved walls and no furniture, just oddly-shaped blocks that wouldn’t be out of place in a modern art exhibit. He can’t see any doors either, though his peripheral vision is fuck-all at this point.

Still, he’s got just enough leeway to crane his chin downwards – which confirms what he was already suspecting. He’s suspended in mid-air, his boots at least six inches clear off the ground. It’s like he’s been pinned in place by some kind of maglev effect, but he can’t fathom any present tech that would have the strength to hol–

No. No. Not tech. His heartbeat is beginning to skitter in his chest, pulse rapidly at the base of his neck. He would rather be dead and at the mercy of crazy Hades voodoo than be… lost in some speck of the universe. He _refuses._

In typical fashion, the universe chooses that moment to slide open a section of the wall. What proceeds to come in appears to be closer to tentacle-alien than Fury-from-hell, but Tony is prepared to grant some artistic liberties.

Of course, all that is blown out of water when a Han Solo type swaggers in just after.

 _Maybe I made it to heaven._ He’s being over-generous, but there’s something to be said for the clear-eyed, glinting regard of the man who’s just walked in.  There’s the getup, obviously – the jacket, the weapon holstered ever-so-carelessly on the hip, the fleet-fingered _tap tap_ of his nails on his thigh suggesting anything but a lack of care. But what really sticks is the stare: hazel eyes, honest in their shade and undeniably mercenary in intention.

The fantasy comes to a screeching halt when the man actually opens his mouth. “I’d have to sell it off piece by piece, but I can get a good price.”

_How dare._

Tony likes to think the suit comes alive through the power of his sheer indignation – but truth be told, he just kicked back his right heel and activated the emergency power supply. The repulsors whine to partial strength – he doesn’t do anything too fancy, just swivels his right gauntlet to point straight at his target.

And imparts devastating words that may or may not make it through his external speakers. “Sell this, you scummy Jawa.”

The repulsors fire, which is good. The man’s irises begin to glow, which is decidedly not.

The impact ripples out from the centre of collision like a shockwave – it catches Tony in the chest, wrenches him free of the maglev hold. It’s like being hooked and pulled backwards, very suddenly; the wall hits his back and he crumples, pain jangling in his senses like a livewire. His vision’s starting to go out.

Through it all, there’s space for one last, resentful thought.

_Superpowers. Fuck me._

 

**Author's Note:**

> For those interested, I'm imagining teen!Tony's gorgeous car to look something like [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chevrolet_Camaro_\(third_generation\)#/media/File:Chevrolet.camaro.IROC-Z-red.front.view-sstvwf.JPG). Further, the whole 'man who has lain with an A'askavarian' thing comes from the first Guardians movie, as well as the MCU wiki. Some more lyrics taken from 'Highway to Hell' by AC/DC and 'Come and Get Your Love' by Redbone.
> 
> Lemme know if you liked and wanna see this continue!


End file.
